


Speak Softly, Love

by malchik



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Explicit Language, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mob! Harry Hart, New York setting, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Build, Slow To Update, mentions of abuse, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchik/pseuds/malchik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1946. Harry is the second-generation Don of the Cuore crime family, and Roxy is his adoptive daughter. The story opens on Roxy’s wedding day, and Harry taking requests in his dimly lit study. One of the people in need of his help is Signora Unwin, whose son is under the clutches of the Valentine Family for years. She wants to get his son back. Everyone is very averse to the idea of crossing another family, but it is a well-known fact that no Sicilian man can ever refuse a request on his daughter’s wedding day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read, guys. Corrections and criticisms are welcome. :)

**i.**

 

_Sig./Sig.ra Michelle Unwin:_

_Sig. Harry Hart requests the honor of your presence_

_at the marriage of his daughter, Roxanne, to_

_Maximiliano Bassani_

 

_Sunday, the ninth of June_

_on the year of Our Lord_

_one thousand nine hundred forty-six_

_at eight o'clock in the morning_

 

_St. Aloysius Catholic Church_

_209-217 West 132nd Street_

 

_Reception to follow at the Cuore Estate_

_1241 Tremaine Avenue_

 

_Please bring this invitation for identification._

 

No. 234


	2. An Offer of Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is paralleled to the first scene of the movie, The Godfather (1972); a lot of the dialogue were incorporated. If you haven't watched it yet, please do. It's got a very dark tone, and it's one of my favorite films. I highly recommend. Also, the title is from the movie's soundtrack. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82zt5Fk5YTc). The epic instrumental version is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOpOJ8EDvYU).
> 
> Not beta-read. Enjoy! x

**ii.**

 

 **The room bathed** in the dim, orange light emanating from two lamps on the north and south sides of the room. Expensive paintings hung on the walls, barely visible in their locations; instead, they gave illusions of warped windows, where illustrated creatures behind the shadows could peek through the glass. At any other moment, anyone entering would have surmised that it was dusk, since the venetian blinds covering the two small windows hardly permitted any outside light to enter. It was the warm, humid condition inside the room that indicated otherwise.

A fireplace was slotted on the farthest wall, and the clock above the mantel ticked loudly, stating the time as 12:05. A dark niche devoid of dust and soot, the fireplace had never been lit once since the family had built the house in 1928. At the center of the room was an intricately carved mahogany table, varnished to a deep dark brown, similar to the color of the carpeted floor and the other woodworks inside. It was a room enchanted, cursed to the uniformity the owners had valued so much.

A leather armchair stood behind the table, sized proportionally to the furniture in front of it. Sitting on it was a medium-built man, his face hidden by the shadows and by the smoke from his cigar, his legs crossed, and his back leaned on the chair's comfortable leather back. The man’s shoulders rested on the arms, the hand holding his cigarette raised head-level.

In contrast to him, a woman, who occupied the seat before him, clutched her handbag against her body as if it could function as a shield between them. She sat tensely for a few seconds, her eyes roaming around the room, her legs crossing, and then uncrossing. She tried to smoothen the creases of her floral dress, which stood out inside the dark-hued room, before she gathered every courage she had to face the man in front of her.

“I believe in America,” were the first words to come out of her mouth, as a way of introduction. Her voice wavered, but anyone inside the room would detect the pride in it.

Harry Hart puffed a cloud of smoke out of his lips before leaning forward. He had heard of this a million times before, mostly with the verb in its past tense. It was tiring, to hear the same thing over and over. What’s worse: these people - these people who came to him, complaining that they had their dreams crushed by America - thought they were the only ones who were done wrong. It was almost a ritual, something done as a prerequisite whenever people entered his study: before offering their _friendship_ , in return of Harry Hart granting whatever they wished, they had to tell how the very country they lived in crushed their dreams flat.

But still, he did his best to appear interested.

The stench of tobacco was a comforting entity inside the room, serving as a distraction while he waited for the woman to continue.

“America has made my family’s fortune. There were hard times, but we managed. And I raised my son in the American fashion.”

Two other men accompanied them inside the room: one stood behind the Don's seat, his hands clasped together behind his back, while the other sat near the door, right beside the telephone.

Harry watched Merlin in the background, playing with the telephone's rotary dial. Harry coughed silently, to get the man's attention. Merlin regarded him with his eyebrows raised in question, and using his cigar, Harry pointed to the liquor cabinet. Merlin understood at once: he stood up from his seat, strode towards the cabinet, and started filling a glass with port. The glass was a part of a set from signor Bonasera, a thank you gift, for that time when Harry called on for two teenagers to be beaten to a pulp for fucking with Bonasera’s daughter - the set was of the best quality, and Harry was quite fond of them.

Lancelot observed them with, his face passively bored.

“My husband was a good man. But he was put to jail for something he didn’t do. They accused him of being a murderer, but he wasn’t. He wouldn’t even kill a cockroach if I told him to," the woman said, worked up. She was not even aware of the subtle conversation between the Don and his trusted consigliere. "The other suspect, Richmond Valentine’s son, he sneered at me during the trial. He was the criminal, but they set him free. For him, the judged suspended the sentence, while it was the electric chair for my Lee!"

Now the woman was crying, and to appease her, he gestured at Merlin to give the port to the woman instead. He took another whiff of his cigar, stopping in the middle of the act when he finally registered the name to his mind.

“Richmond Valentine’s _son_ , was it, signora?”

She nodded as Merlin passed onto her a glass of wine. Merlin's eyes go wide in alarm, and was about to open his mouth, but Harry fixed him a gaze before putting his attention back to the woman.

“Please continue,” he urged.

The woman wiped her tears with her handkerchief. “My husband was killed years ago in prison. He got mixed in an argument and an inmate stabbed him during the fight.”

“My condolences for signor Unwin.”

She shook her head. “I was happy that _at least_ I didn't get to see him fried in that chair, but that’s not what I’m here for, Don Cuore.” Signora Unwin inhaled deeply. “About three years ago, I gave birth to my second child. I named her Daisy, just like those flowers we once had in our front yard. She's the most beautiful girl in the world. But with this new member of the family, and my new husband Dean discharged from his job, my son had to look for work. He got in as an office clerk in one of the accounting firms in Manhattan. He was so happy he got the job. I can still remember him running up to me in the kitchen, in this fancy suit and tie. He ran all the way from the city, sweaty and his hair unkempt, but he had this big smile on his face. He was jumping up and down when he told me the news.”

She paused, drinking the port in one gulp.

“He was already working there for months - he said he rented a room beneath the building because it was too far from our house - when I found out that the firm was owned by Valentine’s son himself. He didn’t come back home. I went to the police, like a good American. They said they’d look into it, but now it’s been a year, and the only thing I received from my son is his paycheck. It’s been one whole year, Don Cuore, and I have heard no news from him since.”

Harry leaned closer to his table and killed his cigar on the ashtray on top. “Why did you go to the police? Why didn’t you come to me first?” he asked.

“What do you want of me? Tell me anything. But do what I beg you to do,” Signora Unwin pleaded, her voice breaking from the emotion.

Harry sensed a migraine starting. He picked up the half-burnt cigar he left, and Lancelot slid to the side of the Boss to light the blunt. “What do you want us to do, signora?” Harry asked, his voice calm and even. “Get him out of the mess he’s in? Do you know the implications if we ever were to do that? The Valentinos are an old family; they’ve been on this land longer than any other group in the business. We take your son, we take their property.”

“Please, signore, I -”

“You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why go to the police first?”

Signora Unwin had the grace to bow her head down. “I didn’t want to get into trouble,” she replied.

Harry leaned back on his leather chair, getting the inexplicable urge to chew on the tip of his cigar. “I understand. You found paradise in America, your family - at least for you and your son, got a good trade, made a good living. The police ‘protected’ you, and there were courts of law. My family’s known yours for years. My mother was your godmother, was she not? I can’t remember the last time you’ve invited us at your house. You haven't offered me the choice to be your daughter's godfather.”

“Don Cuore, please listen-”

_Enough._

“I heard you clearly. You don’t offer friendship - pardon, you don’t even want my family’s friendship, am I correct? But now, you have the nerve to come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask for your son to be rescued from another family’s clutches? You want me to call my men out and endanger ourselves for a stranger’s son who was too stupid to think for himself?”

“How much? I’ll pay you!" Signora Unwin said, desperation in her voice.

There was a pregnant pause.

Merlin took a few steps towards the Don, looking amused. Lancelot, on the other hand, threw Harry a few wary sideways glances. The Don had to restrain himself from getting the ashtray and pounding the woman’s head with it. He stood up, taking a deeper drag of his cigar, forcing the itch he felt on his hands to ebb. He walked around the table, so he was now a mere inches away from her. The woman instinctively leaned back, hugging her handbag closer to her body.

“Signora Unwin, what have I done for you to treat me so disrespectfully? Had you, say, offered friendship instead, this would have been over in a minute. I would have one of my men in Manhattan do the job as soon as possible. And if you were to have any enemies, they'd _be_ my enemies. But you didn't.” Harry blew out a cloud of smoke, some of which reached her, making her flinch. “Let’s get this straight,” he continued, raising his voice. “I don’t need your money, signora. My establishments are there to generate that for me. I am not a mercenary who you could pay anytime you want to perform dirty deeds for you. What I need is your _friendship_ , and your recognition that one day - and that one day might never come - when I call upon you to do a service for me, you’ll do it without question. _Capisci_?”

The woman remained silent, but Harry could feel she was scared stiff.

_Good._

Harry feigned a sigh, as if he was giving up in this fight.

“Very well, consider it as a gift on my daughter’s wedding day.”

The signora was, of course, shocked at this quick turn of events. Her arms suddenly seemed to lose their grip, causing her bag to fall down on the floor. And then, with a trembling hand, she reached for Don Cuore’s arms. Her knees buckled, her legs hitting the floor, just like her accessory. Tears were streaming down her face, but at that moment, Harry could see that she didn’t care. “ _Grazie, grazie, signore._ _Don Cuore… il mio amico…._ ” the woman mumbled as she kissed the back of Harry’s palm.

Harry liberated himself from her grip and walked away, stopping by one of the windows and peering through the slits. From his location, he could barely hear the music from the band outside.

"What is the name of this son you seek, signora?"

Through the murmurs: "Gary. But I always called him Eggsy."

 _A strange nickname_ , he discerned.

"Where does he work?"

"He-he didn't say exactly," she said, ashamed of her words.

Harry cut short the urge to regard her with exasperation. He drew in a deep breath, and then said, “You may go now,” terminating their conversation.

“ _Grazie_ , Don Cuore.”

“ _Prego_.”

The woman’s high-heeled shoes tapped against the floor in soft, uneven staccatos, Harry heard the door close, and everything was silent again.

"Lancelot, I want you to lead this job. I don't want any screw-ups. Tell Rufus and Hugo to do this with you."

Lancelot nodded curtly.

“Do you want your glass of port now?” Merlin asked.

“Yes, thank you. Fill it up to the brim,” he said, not pulling his gaze away from the scene by the window. Harry spotted his daughter sitting under one of the gazebos in their estate, looking so ecstatic as she chatted with her guests. "How many more before this day is over, Merlin?"

"Five more, signore."

Harry straightened his suit and rearranged his tie, using his reflection on the mirror as reference. "Let me talk to the two now and schedule the other three for this afternoon. I can't stay here all day when it's Roxy's wedding day."

Merlin offered him the glass of wine, which he took with a small nod in appreciation. "Am I going to call the next one in, then?"

"Please do."

As he returned to his seat, Harry wondered who the first Sicilian man was to _never_ refuse a request on his daughter's wedding day, and why he had established it as an unwritten rule.


	3. During the Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short briefing (kinda redundant lol I love it).  
> The American _cosa nostra_ is a very heirarchical organization. The structure is as follows:  
>  1\. Boss - Don or the Godfather. Pretty explanatory. This position may be filled by a person voted by the Caporegimes (the Underboss votes as well in case of a tie).  
> 2\. Underboss - appointed by the Boss; second-in-command. First in line to become Acting Boss once the Boss dies or is imprisoned.  
> 3\. Consigliere - advisor; very trusted, low profile gangsters. Mediator; liaison between the Boss and important figures, such as politicians.  
> 4\. Caporegime - (also Capo, captain) in charge of a crew; A crew is usually made up of ten soldiers, like a small version of the family.  
> 5\. Soldier - (also soldato), basically _made men_  
>  6\. Associate - not a member of the family; errand boy, used to keep the heat off the actual members.  
> The Italian _cosa nostra_ , where the American one was based, has a similar heirarchy, but the names of each is different (e.g. Boss ~= _Capofamiglia_ )  
> Source: [[x](http://www.weddinginsicily.co.uk/wedding_sicily_mafia.htm)]
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter seems like a filler. I'm kind of slow at building the start of the story. Here you go, Chapter Three, with a _lot_ of secondary characters.  
>  As always, not beta-read. Criticisms and corrections are welcome.  
> Enjoy! x
> 
> Definition of other terms are at the end.

**iii.a.**

 

 **Hundreds of guests**   gathered in the garden on 1241 Tremaine Avenue, half of them in awe at the large expanse surrounding them, the other half just as indifferent. Most of them stayed on their seats laid out all around the garden, under the shade of a green cloth roof. On a raised platform, others who didn’t mind the midday heat danced to the string quartet’s music. A loud celebration, this wedding feast - and rightly so. It had been a long time since the Cuore estate had opened its gates to the general, _chosen_ public: five years, counting from the time the first-generation Don Francesco Cuore died. The public had expected a grand occasion, and they weren't disappointed. The decorations were lavish, almost excessive, with different kinds of flowers adorning every visible space, the cloth covering every table sewn from the best-quality linen, outdoor chairs comfy enough to be used for an aristocrat's parlor, and the new brass fountain at the center of the garden gleaming under the sun. Servers roamed around, offering various labels of red wine, _spumante_ , and _prosecco_ to those positioned around the table for the  _aperitivo_. A particular man, James Arnold, stopped a young, olive-skinned teenager carrying a bottle of  _Gaja Barbaresco_ , and asked, "When's the next course to be served?" in a not so restrained voice, causing a few curious heads to look his way.

The attendant's cheeks reddened, and then replied softly, "In an hour or less, signore."

"How many courses?"

The blush on the boy's face couldn't have been any redder at this point. "Nine more, signore, including the  _ammazzacaffe_."

"Ah, yes." He patted the boy on the back, signaling him to go back to work. "It's my first time in an Italian wedding reception, I wasn't aware what to expect. Go on, off you go."

 

* * *

 

**iii.b.**

 

 **Located on one** side of a small man-made river was a gazebo, where the bridal couple, as well as their attendants, were cooling down. The bride, dressed in a white, laced wedding gown that swept the floor, and with hair tied behind her head so her veil would flow at the right angles, painted the picture of a visually stunning porcelain doll.

Emotionally, she was a train rushing towards another train wreck.

Roxy Morton was no more, as Mrs. Maximiliano Bassani was her identity  _now_. She stared at the mass of  men in tuxedos and women in dresses interacting in front of her, unfolding like a surreal, black and white film with no obvious plot, and then she shivered, her skin developing goosebumps as she felt the weight of a million eyes upon her. Right at that moment, she felt like she was four years old again, in front of the flashing camera lights as the reporters trapped her in place, asking her a million questions about the accident. She couldn't appreciate her dress anymore. It was too constricting. The skin right above her heel had peeled off from the friction against her shoes. She itched to get the veil off her face.

Roxy had to get away.

"Honey, are you sick?" Max's voice barely calmed her nerves. Maximiliano was dashing, as he always was, but Roxy just can't look at him straight in the eye.

"I'm fine," she said, her smile strained. "Can I get a glass of water, please?"

"Of course. I'll get one for you."

As soon as Max got away, Roxy kicked her heels under the table and dashed off to the other side of the river, not caring at all as the bridesmaids called out her name.

 

* * *

 

**iii.c.**

 

 **It was a** wedding reception; it was quite understood that the bride and the groom were the most notable of the occasion. However, Richmond Valentine and Gazelle of the Valentine family loved being the center of attention, no matter where they went.

Richmond Valentine, eccentric as he was known, certainly was the center of attention as he attended the feast in an all-white ensemble. Members of the older generation who had been staring had to contain their surprise - all-white clothes worn during a wedding were considered taboo and were a blatant disrespect for the bridal couple. It had them whispering, throwing the Don of the other family sharp stares, but what got to them was his loyal assistant, Gazelle.

She wore a black, waist-cinching satin dress, her arms covered with opera gloves, head adorned with a black, wide-brimmed hat with a veil, and her neck wrapped by a black pearl necklace. Complementary to her gloves was an opera-length cigarette holder between her fingers, smoking at its end. She smiled at the scandalized looks some of the female guests gave her, clearly enjoying the attention.

"It is the death of the famed Roxanne Morton, yes?" she said to a woman gawking at her by the fountain. The woman, in shock, accidentally let her glass slip through her fingers and fall to the floor. Just as the wineglass broke to pieces, Gazelle had already disappeared, taking her place beside Valentine on one of the tables hidden from public view.

James Arnold was busy pinning olives and putting them in his mouth. While he was chewing, his eyes met Gazelle's.

The second his gaze drifted back to the  _hors d'oeuvres_ , his hands were already clammy and his stomach was churning.

A message had been sent.

Gazelle amusedly watched as the bride took off to the other side of the garden.

 

* * *

 

 **iii.d.**  

 

 **Hugo Terranova and** Rufus Gleeson were the youngest of the Don’s _soldati_ , grabbed out of the streets when they were only eighteen and twenty-four, respectively. Hugo was a runaway from New Orleans, almost starved to death when he finally reached New York. The Don, with Roxy and Percival, found him lying just outside one of their family restaurants in Little Italy. Don Cuore took the boy home, fed him until he was about to pass out, and bought him new clothes like he was his own son. He was given a job as a waiter in one of the family's diners, and in gratitude, Hugo volunteered himself in the less-than-legitimate schemes they had. He then began his new life as a waiter by morning, and a cocaine dealer by night.

Rufus Gleeson, on the other hand, robbed Merlin of his wallet one busy day in Wall Street. The _Consigliere_ caught him as he was about to turn to Hanover. Merlin was beaming when he approached Rufus, clearly impressed at what he had done. Rufus was at once brought to the Don's infamous study, where he was asked if he wanted to become one of their associates. Rufus said yes - he was an unemployed Irish man in a strange city, buried in debt, and here they were, giving him a permanent job, not to mention a roof above his head. He wasn't as foolish as the others pegged him to be to let the opportunity get away.

Approximately five years after, they were ushered again in front of a group composing of the Don, the Underboss Lancelot, the _Consigliere_ , and all the _Caporegimes._  They were led to a dimly lit room, empty except for two tables and two chairs, where they were ordered to sit. A knife and a gun were laid out on each of their tables, and without warning, their fingers were pricked with a pin. A picture of a saint was shoved to their faces, and they had to smear the blood over the surfaces. These images were burned right in front of their eyes, as they recited their vows:

_"As burns this saint, so will burn my soul. I enter alive and I will have to get out dead."_

They kissed the Don's cheeks, and the contract was sealed.

They were now part of the family.

On the day of the Boss’s daughter’s wedding, the two stood on guard in front of the gate’s estate, silent and observant as they trained their eyes at the parking area.

“Wonder why the guests had to park here in front when there’s a bigger space inside?” Rufus asked.

“ _Balordo_. Haven’t you seen the grass inside? Their lives are more important than yours. Don Cuore can’t have them being crushed flat by these cheap-ass cars. Besides, this looks more conspicuous, don’t it? Gives them _chiacchierone_ their fodder for the winter.”

Rufus coughed out a laugh and extinguished it quickly.

They bickered more than usual, killing their boredom by exchanging words.

The gate opened from the inside, and out slipped a middle-aged woman in a rumpled floral dress. She held a handkerchief against her face, wiping what’s obstructing her eyes without hitting her make-up. She walked away from them, not looking back.

Rufus and Hugo had to exchange glances at the sight. Who in the world ever walked away from a Sicilian man’s feast, not to mention when it was only starting?

Hugo shrugged, not bothering to care.

“Did you see those envelopes the guests were carrying?” he asked.

“What about them?”

“Cash, baby. It’s all going to go to the bride once this is over. And get this: the amount inside depends on the amount of respect they have for the Don.”

“Yeah? Who d’you reckon gave the most then?”

“I ain’t guessing here. I bet it’s Chester King.”

Rufus scoffed. “Monarca’s Don? You're bluffing. I bet he only slipped in some coins and some poor guy’s middle finger for the fun of it.”

Hugo kicked a pebble near him, and it hit one of the car’s bumpers.

“You ain’t listening to the news on the street, don’t you? They’re saying that Monarca’s territory up on Queens is going to be nonexistent by Christmas.”

“Because of the Valentines?”

“You bet your ass they’re the culprits. They been waging wars for a couple of months. So right now, I bet King’s doing his best to suck it up to our Don.”

Rufus hummed as he processed this new information.

"Have you seen Gazelle, though? The damsel's crazy to come in here in that funeral dress," he said.

Hugo spat on the wall he was leaning on. "The Don don't care about those things. What he cares about is his daughter's wedding to that fucking tool and the new chain of nightclubs down in Staten Island."

"Percy's working on it. The Don's got nothing to worry about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definition of other terms:
> 
> 1\. _spumante_ and _prosecco_ are variants of sparkling wine, afaik  
>  2\. _aperitivo_ is the first course of a formal meal, like an appetizer  
>  3\. _ammazzacaffe_ is the drink to conclude the meal, where herbal drinks are usually served. To know more about the Italian meal structure, here's the wiki I used [[x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_meal_structure)]  
>  4\. _balordo_ \- stupid  
>  5\. _chiacchierone_ \- gossipers, f. plural
> 
> Another note: the initiation on iii.d. is like, for real. Kind of got me scared as I researched on it.
> 
> Eggsy's finally going to make an appearance on the next two chapters. :)))) x


	4. Eggsy, Part One - A Year Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read, as always. x

**iv.**

 

Written April 16, 1945

Received April 23, 1945

 

[sic]

 

_Dear Mum:_

 

_How are you? I do hope you have gotten the money and the telegram from last week. Is little Daisy well now, or is she still sick? Joan, one of my co-workers, told me of this clinic down in Bronx, said they have got a good doctor there for kids. Maybe I could go home this weekend and I could ask him to check on Daisy? Joan said he charges really cheap. I’ll call on Wednesday at the earliest, right after lunch and ask you about it. Just make sure you’re right by Mrs. Folger’s telephone when that happens._

_I have been pondering on getting you a telephone, and I already looked at these appliance stores near the office. However, they are a bit on the pricey side, not to mention the added bill a telephone would cause, so it would take months before I can get you one. But! I was wandering around town and I found this nice place which sells a selection of toys. There was this rag doll in a polka dot dress which just looked so much like Daisy’s old doll, the one chewed to shreds by old JB. I’m seriously going to buy that one for her._

_Work has started out nice, by the way. The people were welcoming, some of them even shared their lunch with me. I bought this nice blue suit for work; the shoulders and waist were quite wide - nothing a belt and some adjusting wouldn’t fix._

_My job usually involved filing and sorting out tons of files. There’d be times when I had to deliver a letter to one of the other offices in town (which I really liked, ‘cause I get to stretch my legs and get to breath fresh air). I’m practically their errand boy, but I’m not complaining, don’t worry._

_I also rented this small room under the building. It was supposed to be rented out for the night janitors, but they said I could get it if I pay for the whole room - the night janitors were supposed to pay by bed space. It’s bigger than my room back there, and it’s got character. I quite like it._

_Write me a letter soon, Mum? I miss you, and I love you._

 

_Eggsy._

 

_PS: Say that to Daisy, too, all right?_

 

_PPS: I bought a guitar from a co-worker and I’m trying to write songs again. I’d sing to you one someday. You’d love it._

 

* * *

 

Conversation April 25, 1946

From Telephone Booth #38 (designated as #38), area code 212 to telephone registered to Ramona Folger (designated as F), area code —

 

#38: Hello, Mum?

F: Eggsy?

#38: Hi! How're you?

F: I’m fine.

#38: Work at Mrs. Folger’s not too tirin' for you, I hope?

F: I said I’m fine, Eggsy. Don’t worry too much about me.

#38: Aww, don’t be like that, Mum. (pause) How’s Daisy?

F: She still has a slight fever, but she's going to be fine. Already bought her medicine.

#38: Whew. Thank God then.  Oh, right. How d'you like my writing, though? Sleek, yeah?

F: (laughs) Your letter was  _very_ disconcerting, honey. You write good, but you speak like a cow who hasn’t brushed his teeth for months.

#38: Mum! That's disgustin'. I keep my teeth clean every night, thank you very much. And I've to write nice, 'cause of course I can’t be coarse and informal when I'm in the office (snickers).

F: Good to know, love.

#38: (silence, cracking) Dean, though? Has he found work to do yet?

F: Not yet, honey. He's been...busy.

#38: Aww hell, he's been drinkin' and goin' to the horses again, isn't he?

F: Eggsy, stop.

#38: Mum, are you giving him money for gamblin'? I swear to God-

F: Oh dear, Mrs. Folger’s here. I’ll write soon, Eggsy.

#38: Mum, don't - 

 

-call disconnected-


	5. Eggsy, Part Two - A Day in the Life of a Finocchio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. School happened.  
> Not beta-read. Criticisms and corrections are appreciated.

**v.a.**

 

Eggsy tried to wash the taste away. The bristles hurt his gums, yet still he brushed furiously, the suds foaming around his lips and trailing down, staining his collar. He tried hard, but then the sensation was still there, lingering as a reminder of the life he was experiencing now. The flimsy handle of the toothbrush broke into two, the splinters carving a gash through his tense hand. The pain from the wound had Eggsy wincing, the larger part of the brush falling out of his mouth, getting caught in the vomit which clogged the sink. A mixture of spit, blood, and toothpaste dribbled down from his partly open mouth, and he took short, shallow breaths, trying to bottle in the emotions warning to come out. His legs gave in, folding at the knees so that he was kneeling on the floor. His forehead hit the edge of the sink, a slight thunk of a sound echoing inside the windowless room. The back of his throat ached like hell.

Everything hurt.

Using his sleeves, he wiped the froth from his mouth, not bothering to realize the expense he had acquired from spoiling the only white dress shirt he owned. Eggsy hissed when his arms hit a sore part of his cheeks. The edges of his eyes burned from the tears that were about to fall, but he did his best to contain them, to not let them. He knew to himself he needed to stop crying - _“D’you know what cryin’ does, huh? Nothin’! You cry like a fuckin’ sissy, you get nothin’ done like a sissy!”_ Dean said once, and the dialogue stuck to him like glue for a long time.

He blinked, and the first tears began to trickle down his cheeks. A sob escaped his mouth, and then another. His body started to tremble as he forced his emotions at bay, tremendously failing to do so. Thinking it would stop him from shaking too much, he put his knees together and wrapped his arms around them, creating a cage where Eggsy rested his head, finally succumbing, letting the tears flow.

Eggsy imagined his stepfather towering over his curled body, yelling the same word again and again.

_Yeah, I’m a sissy now, ain't I? Always have, always been the useless sod everyone detested._

A lone spider crawled up his neck, coming from the web under the sink. An acrid smell enveloped the room.

Eggsy couldn’t care less if the spider lodged itself inside his ear and stayed there.

He had the assumption that from the things he’d been experiencing constantly, he’d get used to the kind of life he had. _After all, that’s what they say._  When you come upon the same thing repeatedly, you get to become accustomed, until you get indifferent towards it. He should have known better and expected something else entirely.

The indifference would never surface, but Eggsy desperately wanted it to. He’s too tired already.

_It’s always been like this. Dean was the first, Charlie and the others get to continue it._

He lifted his head, sniffing and coughing while he wiped his face. Under the swinging bulb, he caught a glimpse of the pasty, yellowish color of the the floor tiles - Eggsy hadn’t minded the tinge before, but now, he wanted to scrub the yellow away until his fingers bled and the surface shone again. He took notice of his equally pasty skin, glowing a sickly color. Were those his arms? One could always wonder. There were bruises and scratches underneath, faint and noticeable only when up-close.

Eggsy remembered the instances where he got every scar, especially the conspicuous line that crossed his wrist.

It was night then, and the setting in the same bathroom. It was too silent under the basement, such that Eggsy thought the rats forgot to scuttle. There was a blade in his hand - just one of those nights when he had too less to eat and too much fatigue to conquer. He felt tired, so tired, but his body denied the sleep it needed. He got out of bed, treaded towards the bathroom, and locked himself inside. Eggsy uncapped his shaver and removed the thin blade from the tip, like an unknowing shipman lured by the siren calls. He was drowning - in an outright different kind of ocean - but drowning, just the same.

In the end Eggsy couldn’t do it deep enough. The cut he made only marred the surface, but it was sufficient for a scar to develop.

Daisy’s laugh resonated in his ears whenever he tried to cut out his pulse, and it made his chest hurt to think of her not getting whatever she needed just because he heeded to his selfish desire.

He decided to stick to his job in the firm, even if every day he was going through hell and back.

 _This is the way, ain't it?_ The way his life was planned out by whoever it was out there.

It hadn’t been a struggle when he started. The first months were calm, almost idyllic even. A few people tried to make friends with him, but the majority acted as if he was invisible, unless of course they needed someone to do an errand for them. The work wasn’t that exhausting - Eggsy quite liked it.

Everything went downhill when Richard Valentine came to the accounting firm where he worked.

The Valentines were a household name in the country. One of the biggest and largest crime families in the area, there was never a person in the streets to _not_ know the influential status of the group. Nobody dared to voice their opinions against them, as there was an old rumor going around informing anyone who did winds up finding their daughter’s head at the foot of their bed the next morning.

Richard was the Boss’s only son, and was by default the one next in line for the position. Occasionally, he visited their establishments in place of his father, and it was unfortunate that Eggsy ran over the man the day he was about to send another letter to his mother.

That Friday, Eggsy was rushing to sort out the bundle of papers given to him. He stapled and unstapled with accuracy, wrote out the log with ease, and slung his messenger bag over his shoulders soon as everything was done. He got out of his cubicle and carried the stack to the file room.

He found his way blocked by a burly man in a gray suit, flanked by two larger men when he exited the room. His clothes were undoubtedly expensive, but Eggsy couldn’t help but notice the suit didn’t sit in well with the man’s body.

“What’s the rush?” the man asked.

“Sorry for runnin’, sir. The post office’s about to close and I need to drop a letter for my Mum,” Eggsy said.

“Well, no worries, lad. This man here,” he said, pointing to the one on his left, “is faster than a goddamn cheetah from Africa, and he’s a goddamn quick driver, too, aren’t you, Rott?”

The other man grunted.

“Give me the letter, he’s gonna run it with mine."

Eggsy blinked. “Really?” Fumbling with the zipper of his bag, he got a crisp, white envelope out of one of the pockets. He gave it to the man willingly, saying, “Thanks, mister,” with a crooked smile. There was no time to doubt.

The man flipped the envelope in his hand, and his eyes narrowed when they saw the mailing address.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Gary Unwin…sir. But people call me Eggsy.”

The taller man’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Does the name ‘Lee Unwin’ ring any bell to you?”

“It's my father's, sir.”

“Is he, now?” he asked.

Eggsy swore that the manic look the man had was only a product of his imagination.

The next day, a palpable tension in the air greeted Eggsy when he timed in for work. He felt every eye on the room follow his every step, like private investigators with a collective intent of mapping his every move. It was only then that he found out the name of the man.

Richard Valentine. The name was uttered once by his Mum, when he was eight and finally had the courage to ask about the death of his father.

Eggsy sometimes wanted to hate his father, to blame the man that wasn’t there for everything that was happening to him. There lay the problem: Lee Unwin was dead, and Eggsy would only waste his time getting angry over something that didn’t already exist. And sometimes, he did, because it felt better to hate people other than himself.

Charlie Hesketh was one of Richard’s lackeys, too dumb to think on his own and too cocky for his own good. Charlie was never reprimanded for his lack of good characteristics, seeing as he was the eldest son of the acting president of the firm. He got away with anything - particularly with whatever he was forcing Eggsy to do.

Eggsy loathed him just as he did himself.

He was the first one to inflict abuse upon Eggsy, and also the first to call him a nickname, which spread around the firm like wildfire: _finocchio_. They said it behind his back, and while he only heard it out of Charlie's mouth, with the way they looked at him in disdain, he knew.

Sometimes, when Charlie was a little lazy, he’d shorten it and call him _frocio,_ which was basically the same thing. 

 _Faggot._  

Charlie used it to refer to him, along with other colorful expletives, as he forced his cock down Eggsy’s throat; it was ironic, really, and if he wasn’t feeling low right at the moment, he would have been laughing at the absurdity of it all.

 

* * *

 

**v.b.**

 

Charlie had the audacity to sneer at him once he returned to the office after fixing himself up. It wasn’t exactly fixing _per se_ , as the shirt he was wearing, covered in creases, was not pleasing aesthetically, even in a non-office worker’s point of view. But then, Charlie was Charlie, and the bastard everyone knew was like that.

Eggsy flinched when the man passed by and gave him a small pat on the butt. “Had a nice drink, frocio?” Charlie whispered, his breath touching Eggsy’s nape.

His eyes were welling up again. It was as if the man existed in the world to drag him further to the ground, and this was his way of burying him slowly, with a shovel of dirt each time.

“Fuck off, will you?” Eggsy barely contained himself from shouting at the other man’s face and breaking his nose.

“Aww, is little Eggy gonna cry again?” Charlie said, sneering at his red, puffy eyes.

“Stop it, you sick fuck,” Eggsy said, his voice breaking as he pushed him aside. Without waiting for another taunting from the man, Eggsy maneuvered himself away with brisk feet. He stopped by a cubicle and asked the old man on the other side of the table whether he had something for Eggsy to deliver.

Mr. Dinapoli was one of the few co-workers Eggsy liked. A quiet man, he was all-business and was never one to gossip. He usually gave Eggsy the kind of work where he had to go out of the office, which meant that Eggsy could escape the accounting firm and the people in it, even for just a small amount of time everyday - and with a toxic workplace like the one he had at Hesketh and Lager, he was forever grateful for these times.

“I’m sorry, Eggsy, but I had Todd do it since I couldn’t find you a while ago.”

Eggsy’s heart dropped, and there was an uncomfortable clawing inside his chest. Today of all days, when he felt that he had to go away the most, and he couldn’t get the chance to do so. “Alright, thanks, sir,” he said softly, spinning slowly on his heel and not looking the man in the eye.

He had his head hung low as he returned to his own cubicle, luckily without any Charlie blocking his way. He rearranged the things on his desk for lack of anything to do.

Eggsy decided then to revisit the stacks of letters needed to be edited. He set his typewriter up, checking whether the ink ribbon was attached correctly before lining a piece of bond paper to the platen.

He was halfway through his second letter when Mr. Dinapoli knocked on his wall with a pile of papers in his arms.

“Get these to Jamal for binding, and then to Paul Tuttle on 34th afterwards. He needs it before 2:15,” he said.

In a flash, Eggsy takes the pile out of the older man’s arms. Before leaving, Mr. Dinapoli slipped a piece of paper inside the pocket of Eggsy’s dress shirt. Eggsy gave him a confused look, but the other man only shook his head, and told him to “get a move on.”

Eggsy ran out of the building, greeted by the wind which caressed his face, and he was glad of it, even if the breeze was weak and smelled strongly of exhaust and cigarette smoke.

It was an hour past lunch time, and the streets were full of people in suits and day dresses running back to their offices. Eggsy dodged each one of them, ignoring the stares they gave his red-rimmed eyes and crumpled dress shirt. One particular man by a telephone booth stared at him uncomfortably as he talked to the receiver.

Eggsy turned to a corner, stopping by a small establishment for dry goods, which was one of the few segregated establishments in the area. He gave a nod to the woman in front and proceeded to the back of the store, where an enclosed room that smelled strongly of glue and paper was located. It was a small room, roughly four by four feet, and cramped inside were a selection of equipment, a metal book press and various hand tools among others.

“Hey there, Eggsy,” the man by the press said, not looking back.

“Hi, Jamal.” Eggsy placed the stack of papers on a nearby surface. “Need this bound ASAP.”

“How many pages are there?”

“I don’t know. Roughly a hundred?”

“You know the drill. Go eat a sandwich outside or something and give me a few minutes in here.”

Eggsy didn’t feel like eating, however. “I’m just gonna stay here and wait, thanks.”

Jamal  turned to stare at Eggsy, a knowing look on his face. “Problem at work again?” he asked.

Eggsy nodded.

“Do you want to, I don’t know, talk about it?” Jamal asked, scratching the back of his own head.

Seeing his friend’s poorly concealed discomfort, Eggsy felt the start of a smile on his lips. “Don’t worry about me man, I’m fine.”

Jamal gave him a suspicious stare, seeming as if wanting to say more, but he stopped himself and returned to his work.

As Eggsy watched him in motion, he can’t help but wonder when that statement became the default thing to say, when clearly he was not.

 

* * *

 

**v.c.**

 

The walk as he returned to Hesketh and Lager from 34th wasn’t _un_ eventful, to say the least.

Eggsy felt a whole lot better then, although circumstances would indicate that there were days when he felt -

He immediately chastised himself for wanting more. _Don’t get your hopes up, Eggsy._

The crowds on the sidewalks were noticeably thinner, the air cooler and more free-flowing. The shadows from the edifices stretched over the pavement, making temporary shades under the bright afternoon light.

Eggsy halted in front of a brick-walled store which looked anything but an outlier in an office-infested area. The store window boasted a selection of toys, from red wooden soldiers to dolls of various sizes. One particular rag doll screamed for his attention, and whenever he passed by the toy store, it took every strength he had to stop himself from going in and buying the damn thing. It had been almost a year from the day he first saw it, and apparently, the shop rarely changed their displays, so he had been yearning for it to be shipped to their home for a year, too. He was sure Daisy would like it, since her last one had been chewed to pieces by their dog. He wanted to buy it and send it to her, and then read about her glee after his Mum sends him a letter. It would definitely make his day to know that Daisy smiled, and it was because of her older brother.

But then he never got to have the chance to buy the doll. Richard had forbidden him from contacting his family in any way whatsoever, else he’d get terminated from his job, and his family would then be the ones to suffer. He was allowed to send money, but that was it.

Eggsy stood under the awning, staring back at the button-eyed doll on the other side of the window. He tried sending a letter once, but the man by the post office was most likely threatened by Valentine’s men, because in minutes, after the old man called for them, Eggsy was picked up from the post office and then thrown down the pavement in an alley nearby. He walked out an hour later limping, his body scathed and fully bruised from all the kicking he got.

Detecting movement at the corner of his eye, Eggsy turned to his side to see clearly. The man staring from the telephone box was now lurking by a lamp post, spying on him with a newspaper hiding half his face.

Eggsy sighed. Richard must have started appointing men to tail him again, to see whether he was doing something unnecessary or something detrimental to the organization. He would never do anything that would jeopardize his family; although, Richmond Valentine’s son was evidently uninformed.

Feeling disengaged, Eggsy flipped the man off before turning on his heel and sauntering back to the firm, missing the exchange that happened afterwards.

 

* * *

 

**v.d.**

 

Hugo was furious.

Striding towards Rufus’s place by the lamppost, his urge to laugh at the bigger man’s pathetic attempt to conceal himself was clouded by his irritation.

“You fucking fat-head! Can’t you be any more obvious?” he asked, swatting Rufus’s head with the back of his hand.

“Ow! I’m sorry! I couldn’t hide anywhere else now, could I?” the other whined, aiming to justify his error.

“Well, you shouldn’t have been that close to him in the first place!”

“But I didn’t want to lose him!”

Hugo could only groan in frustration. “There are two of us, Rufus. Goddammit, we’ve been in this kind of work for years but you still don’t get the hang of it! Come on, I gotta tell Lance we found the guy. Unwin’s probably in Valentine territory by now, so there’s no use following him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! x
> 
> (Ugh. I'm not that confident with this chapter. Is it too melodramatic??? :/// )


	6. Eggsy, Part Three - A Night in the Life of a Finocchio & The House of the Rising Sun and Other Folk Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! New chapter! Sorry for making you wait.

**vi. A Night in the Life of a Finocchio**

 

His room was located underneath the firm, the door hidden in a dark alley. A few blocks from his place there was once a small food stand which sold burgers three cents apiece, and before, Eggsy was always right by the stand, buying two (sometimes three, on days when he was feeling indulgent) every night, without fail. He’d talk to the man who owned the stand - _his name was Robin_ , Eggsy could still remember - until he’d eaten all of his burgers and was ready to turn in for the night.

Eggsy found it hard being alone with his thoughts, when all he wanted was rest.

The burger stand was gone now; there had been a sanitary inspection in the area months ago, and Robin’s business was one of the few proclaimed unsuited for such. It had been quite a while before Eggsy got used to the silence once more, and to the constant sleepless nights he were having.

Most of these said nights he spent walking for hours, with no destination in mind. The movement helped him become distracted from the issues churning in his mind. He had long abandoned his guitar, the instrument gathering dust as it was stashed away under the bed. He’d get the occasional tingle at the tips of his fingers, the yearning to strum the guitar and sing from night until dawn, but he’d developed the habit of countering the urge.

_Dean was right. It was a fruitless hobby._

He told himself these lies every single day.

There was a park where he’d stay for a while to rest his feet, sitting on one of the benches with his head leaning against the backrest, his head towards the sky. He’d stare at the stars, attempting to connect them, recalling the constellations he was taught when he was a kid.

Eggsy could remember the small, hardbound book he owned, how he tiptoed to take it off the shelf, and then begged his father to read it for him.

He felt guilty whenever the memory came into mind, as if he was betraying his mother for some irrational reason. it was one of the best he had as a child, and made him guilty that it was the father that got himself killed he was remembering, when Eggsy was trying hard to paint the man as reckless and irresponsible, leaving his family behind.

He had thought about it for a long time, but he can’t point out the reason why Richard was _fuckin’ with him_ \- as Eggsy so put aptly - via the extension named Charlie. The most glaring would be that his father had done something against Richard Valentine, such that his anger hadn’t abated against said action even after all the years that had passed. But then the inference evoked another question: what _exactly_ did Lee Unwin do to elicit such a response?

He wanted to find out, badly. He had to at least know that the way he was treated right now was justified.

_As if._

There was also that church where he frequented, a new one built a few ways away from Hesketh and Lager. Eggsy wasn’t exactly religious: his family never had the time to dress up on Sundays, seeing as Michelle reserved them for laundry and housework, while Dean was mostly punch drunk face-down on the sofa until lunchtime.

The place of worship wasn’t pretty, if Eggsy had to be honest - not one side of it looked like a church at all. The thing which attracted Eggsy to it was its name, written in a metal slab on its brick wall: Cathedral of St. Jude, the Patron of Hopeless Cases.

Eggsy couldn't help grinning like an idiot. _How fuckin’ fittin’ then_ , he thought when he first entered the building. It was as if the universe itself wanted to let him know how fucked up his life looked.

The sound of the heels of his shoes hitting the floor as he walked the central aisle calmed him like a metronome, slowly fixing the tempo of his life.

There was always a priest looking down from the choir loft, partly hidden in the shadows, guarding the church from any kind of theft or defacement of property. He followed Eggsy’s movements whenever he entered the building, like a hawk surveying its prey as the prey took a seat on one of the pews. Eggsy liked being near the votive candle racks, where a few sticks were burning. It was a comforting sight, the small flames flickering with every weak breeze that entered the church.

In the end, he had to go back home and tuck himself alone under the covers, trapping his body inside four barren walls with no windows. As he stared at the ceiling, willing his body to go to sleep, Eggsy often wondered if sleeping was dying, of some sort.

 _Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn_ , Mahatma Ghandi had written.

What if?

_What if?_

 

* * *

_Why ain't I reincarnated yet?_

* * *

 

**vii. The House of the Rising Sun and Other Folk Songs**

 

Eggsy patted his shirt pocket, making sure that the folded envelope was still there. He rolled his sleeves, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and changed his leather shoes with a pair of older ones. He was ordered to go pay a visit to The Black Prince on Mulberry, a thirty minute walk from the firm. It was his third visit for the month, as the owners decided to shut him out of the pub the first and second time.

The crowd seemed never-ending, Eggsy noticed; the overflow of people, it was like there were more than usual. Like ants scavenging for food in their open kitchen summers ago. Eggsy had always wondered if larger creatures existed out there, and whether they considered the human population as a colony of ants - or a group of parasitic mites.

There was an old woman selling sweet potatoes where he passed by, and the smell enticed him to stop and pay for one. Eggsy hadn’t had lunch yet, and he still had quite a few coins at his disposal. The loaves of stale bread and cheese stored in his cupboard was more than enough to last him a few days before his next pay.

He blew on his food, taking tentative bites as he traveled the crowded sidewalks of Lower Manhattan, feeling a little bit better, even if the meeting he was about to face wasn’t going to be nice - who’s going to be nice to you when you’re collecting someone’s debt?

He was already full when he got to Mulberry Street, the heart of Little Italy.

The thing that disoriented Eggsy the most whenever he visited the area predominated by Italian-Americans was the noise from the market lining up the streets. Coming from a location where the loudest noises were from cars and of heels hitting the pavement, the constant bickering of people - usually in Italian, but sometimes the stray harshly accented English was there - became his warm welcome to a completely different dimension.

The street market was so full of people that Eggsy had to wonder if the people even had the time - and capacity - to breath in such a tightly fit crowd.

He clutched his bag close to him, squeezing his body through the throng to reach his destination.

The Black Prince was one of the establishments located on the road not owned by an Italian family. It was once glamorous, but from the faded paint on the sign hanging above the doorway, not to mention the dusty windows and the grime that had started to become a permanent fixture over the glass panes, the glamorous days were over. Inside: it was dim, a characteristic of the pub, the surface of the wooden tables dulled from continuous wiping, and most of them missing the complete set of four chairs. Eggsy wondered what happened to them, images of bar fights with vicious bickering and throwing chairs and pint glasses flashing in his mind. Without making his presence known, he entered the pub, which was unusually - for him, that is - brimming with patrons. An hour past lunch and there are already people getting themselves drunk. There was an empty booth beside the bathrooms, and he took his place there, waiting for a waitress to get his order.

A woman with long unruly hair approached the booth, a pen and paper on hand, slither of gum being chewed by her mouth. “What’ll you have?” she asked, not bothering to cloud her boredom.

“A malt, thanks.”

“D’you want the large pint?”

Eggsy shook his head. “No, I’ll just take the...regular one, yeah?”

The waitress sneered, but didn’t say anything else. It seemed getting the regular sized pint glass was almost like ordering cotton candy in this part of the city, and Eggsy pretended he didn’t see the condescension.

“Oh, and wouldja check if Mr. or Mrs. Callaghan is in? I need to talk to them. It’s urgent,” he added.

The girl answered with a pop of her gum, leaving Eggsy alone while she sauntered to a newly filled table.

He clasped his hands together and settled them on the table, letting his gaze linger on the scene in front of him. It was getting rowdy for an early afternoon: a few of the men with low alcohol tolerance were crowding over one strumming a battered guitar, and the hopeless ones were already singing along to the disjointed notes from the instrument, their own wobbly rendition of The House of the Rising Sun droning over the general noise as a distinct entity.

_“There is a house in New Orleans,_

_They call the Rising Sun,_

_And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,_

_And God, I know I'm one…”_

They didn’t know how much the whole song hit too close to home for Eggsy. Sure, everyone had different kinds of interpretations, but there was always that common theme in every one of them - the life of the narrator’s slow descent to ruin, the crumbling of the foundations that had been once there to support him, all because of the infamous house of the Rising Sun.

In Eggsy’s case, one didn’t even have to wonder what that particular ‘House’ was.

_“My mother was a tailor,_

_She sewed my new blue jeans,_

_My father was a gamblin' man,_

_Down in New Orleans._

 

_“Now the only thing a gambler needs,_

_Is a suitcase and trunk_

_And the only time he's satisfied,_

_Is when he's on a drunk.”_

It was like rubbing salt to a wound, listening to the song. His insides felt like they were being twisted into knots; Eggsy wanted nothing more than the patrons to _fuckin’ stop because dammit fine my family’s poor and my stepdad’s an ass he’s a horse racin’ addict and_ his hands were on his lap, clenched into fists his knuckles were white and the veins looked as if they were about to pop out.

It was kind of surprising how a folk song from about a hundred years ago could embody his feelings perfectly. _Just a reminder of how people’s lives haven’t changed even after all those years. Disappointin’, but that was how it was._

_“Oh mother tell your children,_

_Not to do what I have done,_

_Spend your lives in sin and misery,_

_In the House of the Rising Sun.”_

_“Well, I got one foot on the platform,_

_The other foot on the train,_

_I'm goin' back to New Orleans,_

_To wear that ball and chain._

_“Well, there is a house in New Orleans,_

_They call the Rising Sun,_

_And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,_

_And God I know I'm one.”_

The drunks repeated the song two more times, and each time it strengthened Eggsy’s yearning for some kind of distraction, specifically the malt beer he ordered. Half an hour passed, and his beer and Mr/Mrs Callaghan were still nowhere in sight. He waved at the waitress a few times, trying to get her attention, but either the girl was too busy chewing her gum or she was deliberately making him feel invisible.

_Probably the latter._

Eggsy sighed.

The couple had smelled danger and had bolted away again. Eggsy can’t help but think of them as stupid. Eggsy was technically an associate of the Valentines, and once the people on the upper tier got to know that Eggsy failed with the _soft_ ways of extracting the money they owed from them, the more legit members would take it then to their own hands, in a much brutal manner. It was common street knowledge not to irk Valentine and his men, and the Gallaghans were fools.  _Gangsters don't forget those indebted to them._

Eggsy slumped on the table in resignation, planting the side of his face on the surface of the table. _What now?_ he thought. He didn’t want to go back empty-handed, but he knew he had to. The day wasn’t over, and he still had a lot of work to do back at the office. God knew what’d happen to him if he came back late.

But God knew what’ll happen to him, _too_ , when they’d find out he’d been unsuccessful on his task. Again.

The men had now started with a different song, _St. James Infirmary Blues_.

_“I went down to St. James Infirmary_

_I saw my baby there_

_She was stretched out on a long, white table,_

_So sweet, cool and so fair…”_

He was too deep in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the presence of a man on his blind side, until he felt the blunt head of a small object poking his rib. He was about to sit up straight, but the man quickly pushed his body back down on the table, Eggsy banging his head on the wooden surface.

“Ow! Hey - ” Eggsy started, but his cut-off complaint was drowned in the noise of the other men in the pub.

“Don’t. Look,” a low, deep voice commanded, the owner holding Eggsy’s head closer to the wooden table, and the gun poking his ribs harder. “Listen to what I have to say before you scream your ass off for help or something. Be sensible. I’m going to lead you to the toilet, and I’m going to trust you not to do anything stupid.”

Eggsy wanted to laugh at the way the man sounded as if he _cared_ for him. He felt the hand let go of his neck and travel to his wrists, locking them in place. The man tugged him to stand up, and whirled him around without warning. He was then pushed to the direction of the men’s bathroom, the gun pointed at his back.

Soon, they were inside a cubicle, with Eggsy facing the the toilet bowl.

“Speak, then,” Eggsy said.

“How deep are you in Valentine’s organization?” the man asked.

Eggsy scoffed. “A dumb question, ain't it? If I were in too deep, the _omerta_ compels me to not say anythin’ at all, yeah?”

When the man didn’t answer, Eggsy began to doubt himself. “Or...or some other code of brotherhood. I don’t know, I’m no fuckin’ gangster,” he added.

He heard the man snicker. “Got that established, now, didn’t we?”

Eggsy's cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “Who are you? What the hell do you want?”

“Who I am is irrelevant for now. You can call me Lance, though. Makes life easier. As for your other question, do you want the unabridged answer or-?”

“The abridged one, Christ!” Eggsy yelled, his patience wearing thin.

“In a few words, we’ve been directed to take you away from your hellhole.”

Eggsy’s eyes widened in surprise. _People don’t spout off that nonsense everyday, do they?_

“Are you serious?”

“Is the gun I’m pointing at you not screaming ‘serious’ enough?”

Eggsy was getting tired of his position, and it was showing in the way he spoke and fidgeted in his spot, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. And the man was adding fuel to the fire by being a bastard. “Your sarcasm ain’t shit, if you really wanna know.”

The man behind him burst into laughter, the sound echoing inside the tiled room. “Aren’t you some firecracker?” he managed to say through his fit of laughter. “And here I thought you were a sorry piece of shit when I first laid eyes on you while we were snooping around, but you know what? I think you’re good.”

“...Thanks? Now what?”

“As I’ve said, we’re going to take you away from Valentine.”

Eggsy chuckled harshly, his throat hurting from the rash action. “Well, good fuckin’ luck with that. I ain’t goin’ with you, wherever you plan to take me.”

“Say what?”

“You were snoopin’ around, yeah? I’m gonna assume you know about the family I have back in the countryside. I’m not gonna risk them bein’ on the receivin’ end of the...things I’ve experienced. Once you’ve taken me someplace else, they would, without a doubt, come for my family. I-I don’t want that, okay?”

“Such a martyr, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“But humor me this, E-Eggsy? Is that how you pronounce your name? Eggsy? Who the fuck decided to call you that? Anyways, humor me this: ask me, ‘ _Mister Lance, why would you do that? Why rescue me from the ogre Richmond and the witch Gazelle?_ ’" he dictated in a singsong manner. "Well, I don’t think they’re really that involved in your case, but you get the idea. Come on, do it.”

“Fuck you. I don’t want to know.”

“Come on, Eggsy. This once, just this once.”

“Fine,” Eggsy said through gritted teeth. “Mister Lance, why rescue me?”

“Well, I’m disappointed. You didn’t say the whole thing.”

“Just tell me why, all right?”  Eggsy almost shouted.

“Cool down, baby,” the main said. “Here’s what happened: your beloved mother cried in front of our Don to save your sorry ass from the mess it’s in.”

“What?” Eggsy tried to turn his head, but the man pinned his head to the cubicle wall. Eggsy winced upon impact, but didn’t say anything about it.

“Shocker, right?” he said, as if nothing happened. “I was there, too. Quite the most tense scene I’ve witnessed in a while. The air was so thick I could almost taste it.”

“I swear to God, if you-”

“Oh shut it and stop trying to blow your fuse every damn minute. We haven’t done anything to your mother. Chill, Eggsy.”

“Chill, my ass. Who the fuck are you really?”

“I told you, I’m Lance. Didn’t you hear it a while ago?” When Eggsy didn't answer, the man _tsk_ -ed and added, “Can’t say anything yet, baby. There’s the possibility that you’d snitch on us. That’s why I’m not letting you see my face, too. We can’t have you go finding some artist to draw my pretty face -” Eggsy snorted, which earned him another slap on the head “- so that you could give it to Valentine’s men now, can we?”

“I thought you were gonna rescue me.”

“Yes, that’s the plan. But we love being careful. Being careful saves a lot of resources.”

“Yeah? What about the other people here, then? Bet you they’ve already seen your face.”

Eggsy felt an uncomfortable tingle down his spine and the feeling that the man was sneering at his statement.

“What did I tell you? We’re always careful. We got that covered.”

Before Eggsy got the chance to ask how, a chorus of shouting and crashing glass coming from outside the toilet took away his chance to speak, as if the the chaos happening outside waited for his statement to be fully said before unleashing itself.

“What the fuck? What’s goin’ on out - ”

He heard the sound first; he felt the dull pain at the back of his head after. His legs wobbled, and his head hit the cubicle wall, collapsing, his body crumpling on the dirty tiled floor.

Before everything became darkness, there was the man’s voice, clear as day:

“Sleep well, Eggsy. We’ll see you soon. The location’s on the wall.”

_What?_

Eggsy fought a losing a losing battle trying to keep his eyes open. All he saw was a blur of a brown suit, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending's so abruptly done, tbh T_T  
> Oh, and here's my favorite House of the Rising Sun version ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRXb7K7k7bQ)). The organ gets me every time.
> 
> Tell me what you think <3
> 
> PS: I have this hc that Eggsy and Lancelot are so alike - like they're both cheeky little shits - so much alike that both of them can't handle being in the same room for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr](http://pretentious-trash.tumblr.com/)!  
> 


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